Five Good Turns
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: Five times someone working for MJN saved Martin, and one time he saved all of them. Pre-Zurich.
1. Karl

**Pre-Zurich, and pretty much pre-series four. **

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><p>Martin was so deep in concentration that he wasn't registering the sound of the airport. He wasn't looking at the planes. He certainly wasn't watching where he was going.<p>

It was unlike him; the combination of being short and unlucky had taught him to keep an eye out, as people tended not to get out of the way for him, no matter how resolutely he walked towards them.

But he was distracted, trying to untangle the headphones of the dirt-cheap MP3 player he'd inherited from Caitlyn – '_take a look through and see if there's anything you fancy, I'm chucking it anyway_' – and they were being stubborn about it. He'd unplugged and re-plugged them, tugged and wrestled and used his fingernails, and still they refused to budge. After his old MP3 had broken about four months ago, he hadn't found the money to get a new one. He was looking forward to the experience of having something to listen to in the van, if he could just get the blasted things to lie flat…

The sounds of the airport had merged into a low rumble his ears had ceased to register, and he didn't hear the fresh roar until it was too late. As he whipped the last loop out of the headphones he finally looked up, only to find he'd strayed from his path and was on the road.

In front of a bus.

The headphones dangled limply in his hands as he stared, frozen like a rabbit – one of the ones he'd been forced to run over in the past to avoid causing a pile-up. Everything was blank; everything was gone from him, apart from the bizarre, fluttering sense of relief at the back of his mind that at last he'd got the bloody headphones untangled. He didn't think to move back, or sideways. He didn't even think to bring up his arms to protect his face. His feet were stuck to the ground, and his brain hadn't caught up with them fast enough for him to get out of the way before the bus ploughed into him into him in three…two…

Something jerked at his neck with enough force to snap his head back, teeth clacking together as his jaw worked under the sudden pressure, and he found himself reeling backwards. He would have fallen if there hadn't been a hand clutching at the collar of his uniform. The bus rattled by, beeping its horn by way of reprimand.

"Watch it!"

Martin blinked and turned, trailing the MP3 headphones behind him, to see a man of medium height and build, with greyish-brown hair and large, round glasses. Although he recognised his voice it took him a couple of seconds to work out who it was; he'd never met the man in person, after all.

"Karl!"

Karl adjusted his glasses. He was sweating profusely and breathing heavily; there was a spilled plastic cup oozing over the ground a few feet away, and coffee drenching the sleeve of Karl's white shirt. He'd obviously run to get a hold of Martin's collar and drag him out of the path of the bus in time.

"Captain Crieff, right? Golf-Echo-Romeo-Tango-India?"

Martin nodded. In the distance the bus sounded its horn, making both of them jump. It hit Martin then, what he'd just so narrowly avoided; his heart finally began to slow enough for him to form more than monosyllables, and his hands started to tremble.

"God…I…thank you…I…_thank you_…"

"No problem." Karl adjusted his glasses. "Just watch where you're going in future, Captain."

"Yes…" Martin murmured. If he had any colour left in his face he got the feeling it was lingering somewhere in his ears, leaving the rest of him pale and pinched. He felt drained. "Yes, of course. I'm…I'm sorry."

Karl shuffled over to the spilled coffee and picked up the polystyrene cup, slowly, as if he had a bad back. Martin hesitated, and then stepped forward.

"Karl?"

Karl straightened. "Captain Crieff?"

"Will you…call me Martin?"

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><p><strong>Just a short chapter to start off with – the instalments are going to vary in length a little in this one.<strong>

**Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	2. Douglas

Douglas was not accustomed to his phone ringing at nine in the morning on his days off, and he sighed as he left his tea to brew and dug his mobile out of his pocket. Martin. Odd; Martin had been very clear about his van jobs, and Douglas was fairly sure one of them should be about now.

"Martin?"

"_No, this is James_."

Douglas blinked. He knew two people called James, neither of which had any reason to be using Martin's phone.

"James who?"

"_James – I live with Martin. He asked us to ring you. Well, to be honest, he asked us to ring Arthur, but some of us have met Arthur so we just told him he wasn't answering and he picked you next, so…_"

Douglas sighed, nostrils flaring with the effort of keeping calm, both in the sense of not telling this boy he was a twerp, and panicking about why Martin would need other people to use his phone for him. "What's happened?"

"_Give me that phone James, you're bloody hopeless…_"

"_Hey, I'm doing it, I-_"

"_Give it here!_" There was the sound of a brief scuffle, and then a girl with a tired, scratchy sort of voice came on the line. "_Hi, Douglas_?"

"What's happened to Martin? Why can't he use his own phone?"

"_Basically he's got food poisoning and he can't stop throwing up long enough to hold a conversation. We've been taking it in turns making sure he's got enough water and stuff, but it's the holidays and we've all got to go home – there's only a couple of us left now and- James go check on Martin I think he's puking again._"

"_Oh for god's sake, I'm supposed to be packed already._"

"_Just do it!_" She took a breath. In the background Douglas heard a door slam. "_Anyway, we can't really leave him on his own, so in the end he told us to ring you._"

Douglas, listening to the stream of information with a sinking stomach and the strong wish that Martin lived with less excitable students, snapped himself back into speaking mode.

"You want me to come round?"

"_Fiona, it's fine, it's really f-fine, I'll be fine._"

"_Martin, go away. You aren't fine_."

"_I am, don't bother him_…"

"_If you throw up on my new jacket I swear I will kill you. Go away._"

"Being his usual, co-operative self, is he?" Douglas said, already toeing on a pair of trainers – if Martin was going to vomit on him he sure as hell wasn't wearing his good shoes – and rummaging for his keys in the bowl by the door.

"_He's just a bit…agitated. James thinks he's got a fever but we lost the thermometer a couple of months ago and no-one bothered to get a new one_." The sound of James swearing filtered through her end of the line. "_Anyway, can you come round, or get someone to come round? Our train goes in less than an hour…_"

"I'm on my way," Douglas murmured, slipping out of the door and blinking in the bright sunlight.

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><p>James and Fiona both looked tired, dressed in baggy jumpers and jeans, Fiona with her hair in a slapdash bun and James obviously in the midst of packing – he opened the door with his elbow, hands laden down with t-shirts and bits of toast.<p>

Martin surpassed both of them. Douglas had seen blank pieces of paper with more colour and Martin only added to the overall effect by gagging repeatedly into the sink before Douglas could say so much as 'hello'.

Fiona was dashing about with cups of water and suitcases and James kept shouting about his lost glasses, but in the end Douglas managed to get them both out on time, which left him with a disconcertingly silent house and the delight of getting Martin to stop apologising between bouts of vomiting. After a few minutes of trial and error, in which he managed to avoid the worst of the projectiles, they on a position with Martin kneeling on an old cushion, head pressed against the toilet seat, and Douglas leaning against the sink with a cup of water he would press on Martin whenever he thought he could take it.

They didn't speak much during the first two hours.

Douglas was starting to get a line of soreness across his back from the rim of the sink by the time Martin finally piped up. He was wearing pyjama bottoms with a t-shirt that was too small for him, both of which were dripping sweat.

"I'm sorry…God, this wasn't how you were planning to spend your day."

Douglas sighed and offered Martin more water. "On the contrary, I was desperately hoping I'd receive a phone call from an incoherent student in the midst of my morning tea, telling me I had to come and listen to you making frankly the most appalling retching sounds for the next four hours or so."

His intention had been to make Martin crack a smile, to lighten the mood. His intention had not been for Martin to start crying. Douglas wasn't used to things he hadn't wanted to happen happening anyway, but he rose to the occasion all the same, leaning forward and putting a hand on Martin's shoulder.

"You can g-go," Martin babbled between gasps; he cried awkwardly, producing something little more than sniffles. "I'll be al-alright now."

"I have no intention of going." Douglas sighed and, because Martin seemed to have stopped throwing up, at least for now, risked sitting on the floor with his back against the sink and his chin propped on his hand. The position made him feel strangely vulnerable. "There's no need to cry, I'm not going to leave you here to starve."

"That's not…that's not…" Martin stopped and hiccupped, but brought nothing up. "That's not why I'm crying." He pressed his forehead against the seat with a groan. "This is all my fault."

Douglas raised an eyebrow. "Martin, people get food poisoning all the time. I've had it twice, my daughter's had it, I'm fairly sure Arthur got it after eating some fairly disgusting article of food in a hotel Carolyn once booked us into. It's no-one's _fault_."

"It is. It is my fault." He shuddered. "I was hungry, and the students, they keep their leftovers in the fridge with their names on and…and I pretended the label had fallen off, I pretended I thought it was mine." Tears were coming at such a rate Douglas had half a mind to ply the water on Martin again to replace them. "This started three hours later. So you see, I deserve it."

"Martin, shut up."

Martin snapped his head up. "What?"

"You do not deserve anything. You were unlucky which, when it comes to you, is frankly no surprise. On the other hand, you prevented a student going home for the holidays suffering a horrendous attack of food poisoning on public transport."

Martin blinked. "I…"

"Furthermore, any food that had been there long enough would probably have been thrown away. Took it right from the back, did you?"

"I think…yes…"

"There you go. If I remember my student days, it'd probably been sitting there for weeks." Douglas got to his feet, wincing as his knees creaked. "You're tired and feverish, and you need to go to bed."

"What?"

"Besides, I can't stand sitting in here any more. I'll bring you a bucket if you need it."

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!<strong>

**To be continued. **


	3. Dirk

Dirk, although fond of the Hose and Hydrant – especially now that Martin had stopped coming and buying everyone drinks in order to talk about bloody planes – always looked forward to watching the Friday match at Fitton's Hound, drinking one or two beers at a slow pace, and ambling home again. It was his evening out before the hectic mess of the weekend, his time.

Tonight, the match was going to be over before it had begun – the team had had three players injured in just the last season – and the pub reflected it. The only people there were a few small groups of friends on a night out and the people, like Dirk, who came to watch the game simply because they liked the feel of the place.

It was because it was so unusually quiet that he was able to spot the ginger head of Martin Creiff as he went to the bar during half-time to get his second pint. Martin was sitting on one of the half-dozen empty barstools with a glass of what looked like whisky in one hand, the other propping his chin up. Dirk drummed his fingers on the counter, waiting for his glass to be filled, hoping and praying that he wouldn't be spotted. The first half hadn't been so bad that he'd look forward to a two-hour lecture about an airport in the back end of god-knew-where.

"Dirk?"

Dirk suppressed a wince. "Captain Crieff." Maybe if he called him Captain the man would shut up.

No such luck. Martin opened his mouth. "I was just about to ask you-"

The beer was thrust into his hand. Dirk had never handed over a five-pound note so quickly; he barely waited for his change. "Can't stay – half-time's nearly over."

He left Martin with his mouth still half-open and retreated hastily to his seat, breathing a sigh of relief when Martin didn't try and follow him to it.

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><p>After that, the match wasn't exactly un-enjoyable, but Dirk did find himself sneaking glances toward the bar at regular intervals, mostly to check Martin wasn't going to come over. It wasn't that he disliked him; he just really, really didn't want to ruin his evening with talk about work.<p>

As it turned out, he needn't have worried – Martin sat at the bar and minded his own business. His hair was curling and loose, and he'd even rolled up his sleeves. Dirk had never seen him look so relaxed, but on the other hand, he'd never seen him completely pissed before either. And completely pissed Martin was – in his time Dirk had seen a lot of drunk men, and if the several tumblers and shot glasses surrounding Martin hadn't been an indicator, the way he was blinking in a fuzzy, heavy manner certainly was.

The match warmed up – two goals in less than five minutes – and Dirk forgot about Martin completely. Extra time was nail-biting, and the final score a resounding victory that shocked every member of the pub. The atmosphere, which had been reasonably collected, suddenly became more rowdy. Dirk, against his usual routine, stayed longer to talk about the final minutes. Loud music had been turned on, and people in dancing gear began coming in. Still, he stayed – no-one seemed to want to go just yet, and he didn't have to get up early the next morning. It was a one-off. Jessica would understand.

"Going to head out," Phil muttered, when the dancing atmosphere finally became too much for them. "See you next Friday, yeah?"

Dirk nodded as the group made their way towards the toilets or exit. He got up, checked nothing had fallen out of his pockets, and began to pick his way through the crowd. As he passed the bar something struck at the back of his mind, and he turned to see if Martin was still there, fully expecting him to have gone home.

He hadn't, although he was half on his feet. There was a woman with him, a little older, perhaps, and taller, with dark hair and a smile. If Dirk hadn't met Martin before, he would have thought nothing of it – if he wanted to pick up women in pubs that was his business, and more power to him – but Dirk _had_ met him. He wouldn't have been able to chat her up even if he'd tried. Meaning she'd picked him up. Which would have been fine. Only…

Only Marin looked so wasted Dirk was surprised he hadn't passed out yet.

He didn't have to do anything, Dirk told himself. He wanted to think that Martin could take care of himself.

Then he imagined his daughter or his sons, ten years in the future and in such a state, and thought about how he really wouldn't want them to be going home with a stranger. Martin was barely conscious and even if she hadn't noticed, Dirk had.

He did an about-turn, edging his way through the people to the bar. The girl had one arm around Martin's waist and was giggling – she'd been drinking too, but less. Far less. Martin stumbled as he got to his feet, pale and dizzy. Dirk could see the bleariness in his eyes, even in the bad light.

"Martin?"

Martin turned his head, swayed and almost folded at the knees. The girl was still giggling, her high shoes glinting as she moved, but she had a firm grip on Martin's arm.

"Come _on_," she snickered. "We'll go back to my place…s'not far."

"Martin," Dirk repeatedly, firmly, stepping in front of the two of them. "Martin, do you know this woman?"

Maybe he did. Maybe Dirk was being an idiot.

Martin blinked. "Dir…Dirk…" he stumbled out. "I know you…you're…you're Dirk."

Dirk rolled his eyes. "Yes. But do you know _her_?"

Martin looked to the woman and back again as if he'd never seen her before in his life. "I'm not…I don't…" His knees almost went again. "I just wanna…think I need to lie down…"

"We can lie down," the woman said. She tugged at Martin, almost toppling him. "Come on, we know each other fine."

Dirk was still in their way, and he wasn't moving. "I don't think he wants to."

"Sure he does." The girl released Martin's wrist and gently punched him on the arm. "He said so."

Martin was trying to stand by himself, and making a pretty poor job of it. "Did I?"

"You didn't," Dirk said firmly. "You're going home." He turned to the girl. "He's too out of it."

She blinked, as if the thought hadn't occurred to her, and backed off a pace. "How do I know you know him?"

Sensible question, but an irritating one. Thankfully, Martin saved Dirk from a long, slightly odd, explanation by piping up.

"I wanna go home. With Dirk." He staggered against a barstool, prompting a couple of swearwords from the person sitting on it. "He can show me where I live…not sure I remember the way…"

The woman shrugged, waved and disappeared back into the crowd. Dirk took hold of Martin's arm before he could collapse completely and began to half-lead, half-pull him outside. The fresh air, despite his hopes, did absolutely nothing to revive Martin, who had one cheek against Dirk's upper arm and was murmuring something about ATC and a runway. Trust him, Dirk thought. Idiot.

Martin was very short, Dirk realised. He looked young - especially without the ridiculous hat.

The taxi ride was awkward and stuffy after the effort of actually extracting an address from Martin. The only thing he did that warmed Dirk to him was manage not throw up until the taxi had stopped and they were well on the way up the house. Dirk left him to it to wipe his mouth and mutter a slurred apology as he surveyed the area.

"You _live_ here?" he murmured, before he could stop himself, surprised. Martin was a captain – he would have thought he'd have had a decent sized flat, at least. This place was…not quite a dump, but a close cousin of one.

Martin stumbled his way over and raised a hand, as if for dramatic effect. "This…" He paused, and then dropped his arm, almost as if he was disappointed. "This is where I live."

Dirk was just in time to catch him when he collapsed. He handed Martin over to the sleepy-looking boy who opened the door – not a relative, not even a friend, just someone he shared the accommodation with, apparently – and took his leave quickly, before his cabbie could get bored of waiting. He didn't fancy getting stranded, no matter how curious a wasted and hopeless airline captain had made him.

Jessica told him off in the morning for being back so late. He found he couldn't really explain it properly to her, but that was alright. She forgave him.

Martin obviously didn't remember the experience; Dirk never even got a thank you.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!<strong>

**To be continued. **


	4. Carolyn

"Do you know what would have made it even better? If you'd given it without a lemon taped to the top of your hat."

Martin almost choked; he felt saliva hitch at the back of his throat as a mortified flush crept into his cheeks and made his stomach roll. He didn't even bother to reach up and take the lemon away. His hands were frozen. He opened his mouth and closed it again in the hope of saying something professional, something suave, like Douglas. He wanted to turn the whole thing around.

But he couldn't, because he wasn't Douglas, and his brain was currently doing back flips inside his skull. Nancy steamrollered over him before he could say a word.

"I'm sure you think you're a big man, Mr Crieff." Not Captain, Martin noticed. God knew what she thought he was; from the way she was looking at him, lower than dirt. "But the fact of the matter is, we could have all been killed today, because of you. Because you couldn't stand up to a man you're supposed to be senior to."

"I-" Martin stuttered. "I-we…we weren't…"

"You're going to tell me none of us was in any danger?"

Martin swallowed. "I tend…I mean, sometimes I can get…"

"Are you going to say you were getting worked up over nothing in the cockpit? Because that didn't sound like nothing to me."

Martin could let her think he was an idiot, or put Douglas in the firing line. And God knew, after the speech he'd been forced to make about the bloody pogo stick, he really, really wanted to. But he couldn't, because it wasn't just Douglas. Nancy could create trouble for MJN for what had happened today if she really tried, and to judge by her expression, she might well be prepared to do so.

"I have a tendency…to get nervous. When flying. When I'm not flying. That is, when other people…when Douglas is flying. Not that it's his fault. Or mine. I probably…in the cockpit…I didn't know anyone could hear, I probably got more…'worked up', as you say, than I should have."

He was making a total cock-up of it. He could feel his ears burning, armpits stinging. Another few minutes and he was going either catch fire or pass out from embarrassment.

Nancy had her arms folded. "Well, _Martin_, I don't know what you think you're doing parading around as a captain if that's your attitude to flying."

He was looking at his shoes and pretending he found them interesting. He was trying not to listen, but it was hard.

"You're nervous and pompous, you make terrible command decisions, and to be quite honest, you don't seem very bright. That's what I think of you. And I think, one of these days, you're going to get someone killed. Then you'll be sorry."

Martin prayed it was over, mentally begged some higher power, any higher power, to end this before he could start crying. He could feel the corners of his eyes stinging.

"And another thing-"

Just as Martin was beginning to bite his lip tightly enough to tear the skin off it, Nancy stopped. Martin looked up.

"Is there a problem here?"

Carolyn was smiling, but it looked like something a crocodile with a toothache might give a fish it dearly wanted to tear to pieces. Nancy, when she turned to address her, seemed to miss this, but Martin was all set and ready to sink into the floor. He couldn't bear to think what Carolyn was going to say about him.

"Yes, there is. Your 'captain' is an unbearable, irresponsible…"

"So no problem?"

Nancy opened her mouth so widely it was almost comical. "Didn't you hear what I just said?"

"I did. I assumed you were being sarcastic, seeing as I've never heard such a flow of untruthful bilge in all my life. You were being sarcastic, weren't you?"

"I most certainly was no-"

"Well, we're all sorted then," Carolyn cut across her sweetly. "Now if you'd like to be off, you must be a very busy woman."

"I haven't finished."

"You have."

"Excuse me; I have no intention of-"

"You really, really do." Carolyn waved a hand in the direction of the airfield. "Off you pop."

Nancy took in Carolyn, with her hands on her hips and the toothy grin that was making Martin feel like running a long, long way, and gave it up, although she muttered under her breath as she took her leave.

"Are you alright, Martin?"

The forced smile was gone. Carolyn was concerned, he realised – truly, genuinely concerned, and it made him so relieved he thought he might be sick. Nancy was gone, and Carolyn cared.

"I'm fine. I'm…fine."

Carolyn gave him a brisk nod, putting a hand briefly to his shoulder before turning away. Martin stood, trembling, but not as violently, breathing with relief in front of the plane, still with a lemon taped to his hat.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading, and thanks to everyone who's said they've been enjoying this so far, it means a lot!<strong>

**To be continued. **


	5. Arthur

Spain was just one of the many places Arthur considered brilliant. It was brilliant because the people decided to have a sleep in the afternoon, it was brilliant because the weather was hot so he could eat ice-cream and it made his mouth cold in a _good _way, and it was brilliant because he knew how to impersonate over forty-eight different Spanish animals.

But Spain was especially brilliant this time because the client had done what mum said was 'pay their expenses'. Which meant that they got a hotel with a pool and a little fridge with things Mum said he was not allowed to touch under any circumstance because the prices were 'outrageous'.

"Hello Skip!" he shouted, bounding into the corridor and spotting Martin's head over those of an elderly man and woman, both wearing enormous hats.

Martin turned. "Oh. It's you. Are you going down to the pool too?"

"Yes!" Arthur declared proudly. He had on his aeroplane swimming trunks, and he was burning to show them to Douglas. "Isn't it brilliant?"

Martin smiled. "How could it not be, in your book?"

"Are you actually going in the water this time?"

Martin tended not to go in the water, although he never said why. Douglas said it was something to do with his pride.

"I don't know, Arthur…"

"Oh, come on Skip!" Arthur said, leaping down the stairs two at a time because it was more fun. "If we can get you and Douglas and Mum in we can have a game of piggy in the middle."

Martin frowned. "Arthur, you only need three people for piggy in the middle."

"Yeah, but it's a million times better with four."

"You also need a ball."

Arthur felt his face fall. "I don't have a ball."

Martin smiled. "Don't worry. I'm sure you can find something else to do."

"Yeah." He brightened. "They might have a slide!"

Martin reached the doors and looked out of the fancy glass with the special hotel symbol on it. "You're in luck. They do have a slide."

"Brilliant!"

* * *

><p>It turned out the weather was so hot that even Douglas – even <em>Mum<em> – got in the water. And Mum hated pools. Soon, there was almost no-one in the sun-lounges at the side. Martin remained one of the few people not swimming, but when Arthur paddled to the edge, he could see he was sweating profusely, cheeks red.

"You look hot."

"It is hot, Arthur."

"Then why don't you get in the pool?" He smiled. "Even Mum's swimming. Then we could play piggy in the middle."

"You still don't have a ball, do you?"

"No. But you never know."

"You never know what?"

"I don't know." A large man with an even larger rubber ring pushed past him, talking in something Arthur didn't understand but was probably Spanish. What with this being Spain. He was quite pleased by this deduction.

Martin rolled his eyes and stood up, folding his towel neatly on the lounger and fishing something out of the small bag he'd brought with him.

"Are you coming in?" Arthur asked, almost leaping out of the pool with excitement. "Brilliant!"

"Alright, alright," Martin muttered, although Arthur could see he was smiling in the way he did when he thought no-one else would notice. "Just let me get my earplugs in."

"Is that for your inner ear?"

"Yes. Safety precaution."

Douglas, when Arthur swam over to tell him the news, was less enthusiastic than Arthur was about Martin deciding to swim.

"But Martin never gets in the pool," Arthur said. "That makes it exciting."

"Everything is exciting to you, Arthur," he said lazily, swimming at the same pace as Arthur was, but with a lot less splashing and a lot more Douglas-like calm. "Frankly I don't give a damn if Martin wants to eat his dinner in the pool – I-"

"_Can _you eat your dinner in the pool?" Arthur cut in, unable to contain himself at the prospect that he might have been missing out on this experience for thirty years.

"No, Arthur."

"Oh."

With Mum and Douglas not particularly talkative and Martin busy doing steady lengths that, although not a patch on Douglas's, Arthur found very impressive, he went on the slide a few more times. The problem was there was always a long queue of children and teenagers, and the steps were slippery and too small for his feet, so, after a mere ten or fifteen goes, he gave it up and got back in the water. It all would have been much more brilliant if he'd had a ball with him, and he resolved to bring one on the next trip, just to make sure.

He was about to kick off from the side to practice treading water – the only stroke he'd been able to accomplish first time – when something brushed across the back of his hand. He blinked and looked down to see a small, rubber thing floating on the top of the water. He picked it up, but he still couldn't tell what it was, so he found the nearest person he knew and went to ask.

"Mum, what's this?"

Mum looked annoyed. In her red swimming-costume the expression made her look a bit like a tomato, but Arthur had learned not to say that kind of thing out loud, no matter how interesting he thought it might be.

"Arthur, dear heart, how many times have I told you not to pick things up off the pavement?"

"Ah, but it wasn't on the pavement!" Arthur replied triumphantly. "It was in the pool."

"That is the same thing!" She threw out a hand. "Give it to me."

Arthur obliged. She pinched it between finger and thumb, eyed it critically, then handed it back.

"It's only an earplug, Arthur. Now go and throw it away."

"Oh, that's funny-"

"_Now_, Arthur."

"But Martin wears earplugs. What if it's his?"

Mum gave a snort that put Arthur on his guard, but then fixed a smile on her face. "Then why don't you go and give it to him? He's right over there."

"Where?" Arthur asked, craning his neck. "I can't see him."

"Arthur…"

Reluctantly, Arthur left. He was worried, which was unusual for him – he rarely found the time to be truly worried about…well, anything. His gut felt funny, though. It was difficult to see in the throng of people; there were lots of them, jumping up and down, and going back and forth underwater. He couldn't see Martin anywhere, even when he reached the place Mum had pointed to.

"Skip?" he called. "Skip, are you-"

Arthur, trained by endless games of yellow car, was good at spotting things out of the corner of his eye, and although the thing he noticed was not yellow, but sort of ginger, he still saw it. Martin was bobbing on the surface of the pool, his hair above the level of the water and the rest of him submerged. Arthur didn't need his two week _Safety When Swimming_ course to know that the way he wasn't moving wasn't good at all.

"Skip!"

It was a good job that the pool was had low sides and Martin was so skinny, Arthur thought as he reached for him and pulled him onto the tiles, dripping and limp in a way that made him start shouting for Douglas to do something. Douglas obliged, scrambling out of the pool checking Martin's pulse, and declared Martin to be breathing. Just.

Later, when he told the story to the nurses and Douglas and Mum at the hospital, for once, everyone was interested in what he had to say.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!<strong>

**To be continued.**


	6. Martin

The flight deck was deceptively calm. Arthur had exhausted himself trying to make a rowdy stag do happy, and was sleeping. Carolyn, taking advantage of the fact her son was not asking her questions about every aspect of the universe, was also sleeping. Even Douglas looked a little dozy and, as Martin knew full well, it was unusual for him when they were coming in for one of Martin's landings. He liked to take mental notes so he could use them later, as teasing material. It was unnerving to see him pass up the opportunity.

Still, it had been a long flight. None of the members of the crew had escaped having their faces and uniforms daubed with rude symbols in marker pen – Arthur had so many tiny penises drawn on him he looked like a piece of modern art. Thank God the party had decided to stay an extra night. An extra night not covered by MJN, which had left them with a beautifully quiet, if dull, flight back.

Martin settled back in his seat and let his eyes flick to the clouds. Not long now – five minutes perhaps, before he had to radio their approach. Then home. He had a baked potato in his almost-bare cupboard, bought especially. Book. Tea. Bed.

Beeping exploded on his ears like a cannon shot. His hat fell askew as he threw himself forward to check the controls. His instinct was to panic – it was always to panic. But he was getting better at this, he told himself. He had done it at St. Petersburg. He would handle it.

Douglas, suddenly alert, had also jumped forward in his seat. "Fire, number one engine."

It was all horribly familiar. They went through it with routine, with precision; the fire was extinguished, the alarm bell stopped screaming. Douglas didn't ask if Martin wanted him to land it – he radioed their mayday without a second's hesitation as Martin flicked the seatbelt signs to on. Bird strike, suspected. Again. Martin, when he died – which he hoped fervently _wouldn't _be in the next five minutes – would have to have a chat with God about this bad luck of his. It was all very unfair.

Fitton wasn't far off. Even on one engine, they would make it.

He was no more prepared for a second round of beeping than Douglas was. They both started, both frantically scanned the dials and instruments.

"We've lost number two engine."

"What?" Procedure, for the first time in a long while, vanished from Martin's head. "How? How can we have lost both, what the-"

"Martin, stop panicking." Douglas was pressing buttons, but nothing changed. The beeping continued shrilly in Martin's ears, splitting his head with its continuous, pointless warning. "You have control. Keep her in the air."

GERTI was still flying, but she wouldn't be for long. Martin was biting his lip so hard blood was trickling down his chin.

_So, there you are, up in your little plane somewhere above the North Atlantic, when suddenly, oh dearie me, beep-beep-beep, two engine failures._

Only this time, there would be no 'glid' to a false landing, because they weren't over the sea – they were over hard ground. Even though he could see the airfield and the runway in front of them, the chances of making it were slim. This was going to kill them, unless Douglas could fix it. Martin turned to him.

Douglas shook his head before Martin could even open his mouth. "I don't know what it is. Number one's gone, number two working on minimal power. She's going to fail soon. Less than a minute."

"Radio it in," Martin said grimly. "If we can make it to the runway…"

"We won't." Douglas was reaching for the radio, but he didn't sound hopeful. He looked twenty years older than he had two minutes ago. "Don't bother trying. Aim for the space in front of the airfield instead. It's flat."

Martin craned his neck, catching a glimpse of his white knuckles against the stick clasped between his hands. What Douglas said was true – there was plenty of grass, few obstructions. At least, until they hit the buildings.

"I can't – there's too much chance we'll overshoot. We'll bring a whole building down."

"What choice do you have?" Douglas rounded on him. "We'll never make it over the roof onto the runway, we don't have the altitude. You have to risk it, or we'll land on the entire airfield!"

Martin gritted his jaw. He could feel blood running behind his teeth. "I'm in control!"

"Martin-"

"That's Captain to you!" Martin snarled. His mind was flickering with so many possibilities, all of them hopeless, that if Douglas said one more word he was going to explode. That would make his job easier. He was likely going to kill someone, and he knew it wasn't going to be anyone but himself, not if he could help it. There was a way. There had to be a way. Four lives in the plane. Hundreds on the airfield.

His hands had lives in them, and his hands were shaking.

Martin flicked his eyes to the left. The runway was out of his reach, but on the other side of the airfield there was more open space, just enough grass to land between the buildings on one side and the forest on the other. The airfield would be well out of danger. But they might not make it before the pathetic excuse for their one remaining engine gave out. They might plummet as he tried to pull sideways, and it would kill them.

But it wouldn't kill any of the people in the buildings. People he didn't know, tens of people with mothers and sons and aunts and boyfriends, and people he did know, like Karl with his stupid glasses and his bad back, and Dirk, who'd helped him home from that God-awful mistake of a night out after the last Birling Day and who Martin had never thanked, because he'd never worked up the courage.

Could he bring himself to put the three people he cared about most in the world in so much danger? The question always came up in debates. A cart, hurtling down a line. Choose one of two directions. Kill five people, or kill your mother? Kill five murderers, or one innocent?

The questions weren't supposed to have right answers, but they always did.

"I'm going for it." Martin wrenched the control stick round. With a jerk and scream GERTI began to slowly, slowly, alter her course, swinging away from the airfield and toward the fields.

"What the hell – we'll never make it Martin!" Douglas was gripping his seat, the radio dangling, forgotten, between his legs. "Martin! Martin!"  
>Martin ignored him. He had control. He had control. The words blurred into each other until he didn't know if he was saying them out loud or not. His ears were burning as GERTI finally began to level out, began to fall. A hundred feet. Fifty. He'd made his decision, and now he had to act on it. He wasn't going to let anyone die today.<p>

The beeping rose to new levels. Briefly, Martin heard Douglas screaming that they'd lost Number Two completely. Too late for that now. The field was running up to meet them, and every inch of Martin's body was focused on keeping the stick steady in his hands, keeping in control even as his lungs threatened to throw themselves from sheer terror in a tangle of blood and alveoli out of his mouth.

Hitting the ground was like being dropped off a building. Martin's straps tore into his shoulder as he was thrown forward. Grass and mud sprayed into the windscreen as his fingers slid, but he kept his grip. He didn't know if it was him, or Douglas, or Arthur or Carolyn screaming, or perhaps it was all of them, but he knew he had to keep hold of the control stick or he was going to kill them all. His ribs were being shaken in his chest; he was convinced they were going to break from the friction.

A judder. Martin's hand was finally wrenched from the stick as he almost went headfirst into his instruments. Pain bit into his shoulder and exploded outwards. There was a flash and hiss that blinded him – he had a bizarre moment of clarity as the light caught the gold braid of his hat, which was rocking on the floor. And then nothing. Not silence – there was too much hissing and shrieking and groaning of metal for that – but stillness. He breathed.

Douglas was gasping. Martin slowly lifted his head and turned, even though his neck felt like it was about to break in half, to look to the right. GERTI was level with the first building on the airfield. If he'd done as Douglas said, and landed in front, they would have gone right into it, and further.

"Are you alright?"

Martin blinked. Douglas sounded distant. Underwater.

"Martin? Martin, please…"

Martin blinked again, then nodded. "Yes." His voice broke. His right shoulder was throbbing and stinging. "I think I might have broken my arm." The concept didn't fit will the feeling. He was unreal. He was floating. He was-

A click as Douglas undid his straps and staggered to his feet. Martin sat passively as his own straps were undone and he was hauled upright. He couldn't do anything but breathe and whimper as Douglas forced him out of the flight deck. Carolyn and Arthur were already on their feet.

He didn't remember the journey down the inflatable slide he'd always wanted to have a go on when he was seven years old; he was too busy being relieved he hadn't killed anyone, and too much in pain from his arm.

"What's wrong with Martin?"

"Shock, probably." Douglas was still carrying him; Martin was moving his feet, but not very effectively. "I think he's dislocated his shoulder."

"Good God, when he took it to the left I was sure he was going to kill us all."

"He was right though; we're past the airfield. We'd have gone right into it, Mum."

Martin felt his legs give out, heard Douglas's knees hit the grass a second after his. The sound of fire engines was beginning to make his head ring.

"Go find them," Douglas was saying. Martin blinked a few times, but his sight was nothing but confused blurs. "I'll stay here with Martin."

"Are you-"

"Go, go."

Footsteps, receding. A sharp sting on his left earlobe as Douglas pinched him. Martin focused. His head was instantly clearer, as if he'd just shaken off the effects of a sedative. Douglas was looking at him, chest heaving. The two of them were kneeling on the grass. Smoke drifted over the fields.

"Martin?"

"Fine," Martin croaked, pushing himself upright on his good arm. "Fine, just…zoned out…"

"You landed her."

"I know."

"On no engines."

A part of Martin wished Douglas didn't look so surprised, but a large part of him was very glad no-one's brain was decorating the inside of a scorched cockpit, so he didn't mention it. Besides, he didn't think many people expected a no-casualties landing on no engines. He hadn't expected it himself.

"You know what this means?" Martin murmured. The grass was soaking wet patches into his knees.

"You were right – I was wrong. You saved all of our lives." Douglas still had half a swear word written on his shirt, and it made Martin want to laugh. He looked ridiculous.

"Sushi. On the company card."

Douglas frowned for a moment but, as realisation dawned, the frown flipped into a smile and then a laugh and Martin was laughing too because no-one was dead and he was so glad of the fact that he didn't mind that his hat was still inside the plane and his life had broken to pieces around his feet, because he'd done it right, and he'd done it well, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

><p><strong>I don't have <strong>**great engineering/plane knowledge and was pretty much going off what I could find in St. Petersburg and scraps from the internet for this chapter, so apologies for any inaccuracies.**

**There will be a short epilogue up next week, but it is not spoiler free for Zurich.**

**To be continued. **


	7. Epilogue

The wreckage was a sight – GERTI was crumpled in several places, both engines doused in water, and the whole field stank of burning rubber and scorched metal.

They went inside anyway, because she was their plane, no matter what.

"My God," Douglas muttered, and there was no sarcasm in his voice – or at least, if there was, Martin was missing it.

"My God is right," Carolyn said, running a hand along one of the seats. "I don't think we'll be flying the old girl again."

She was trying to be flippant, and Martin couldn't bear it.

"Mum?"

Arthur had stitches on his forehead that he wouldn't stop fiddling with, but Carolyn hadn't yet told him to stop. Perhaps she didn't have it in her.

"Yes?"

"Do you mean that? You mean…we can't fly her?"

"No, Arthur."

"We can't fix her?"

"What with?" Carolyn went to one of the chairs and sat on it, folding her hands in her lap. "This is St. Petersburg all over again."

Arthur turned to Douglas hopefully, but Douglas only shook his head and joined Carolyn on the seats. "There's nothing I can do."

Arthur fled to the cockpit, looking very much like he was trying not to cry. Martin wanted to reach out and grab him, but there was nothing he could have said.

"Poor boy," Carolyn murmured. "Poor, poor boy."

"How are you holding up?" Douglas was speaking quietly. "What are you planning to do?"

"Sell her for scrap – what else can be done?"

"There's no way you can fix-"

"No way in hell. I'm sorry, Douglas. Martin. I'm sorry, both of you."

Martin didn't sit down – he didn't feel like it. "I couldn't save her."

"Martin – you saved all of us." Carolyn was up on her feet in an instant, putting a hand on his arm. "That's more than enough."

She meant it, wholly and sincerely, Martin knew, but he couldn't help wishing that he could have done more.

"Skip?"

Arthur came back through from the cockpit, teary-eyed, with Martin's hat grasped between his hands. "I found this – I thought…"

Martin smiled. "You keep it, Arthur. I won't be flying for a long time." The words made his stomach hurt, and he wished he hadn't said them out loud; Arthur was trying bravely to stop his chin trembling and Martin was only making it worse.

In an effort to compose himself, he turned away, wandering through to the cockpit, putting a hand on the instruments and letting out a sigh. As he did so, something caught his eye – one of the floor panels had come loose on impact, and beneath it the wiring looked…well, definitely not like it should. He'd read every book on planes he could get his hands on. He knew what it should have looked like down to the colour, and that was definitely not the right colour.

"Douglas? Carolyn?"

There was a shuffling, and they appeared in the doorway, Arthur a little way behind him. Douglas caught on to what he was looking at straight away, and as Martin leaned down and pulled the panel away, Carolyn let out a gasp. "Is that-"

"It is."

"Gold."

"But how?" Martin said, leaning back and pushing a hand through his hair, trying not to think about what this meant. "_How_?"

"Gordon. Of course, Gordon." Carolyn's faced morphed from surprised to delighted. "He is going to be furious."

"What?" Arthur said. "What's going on?"

"Let's just say," Douglas said, taking the hat from Arthur and balancing in his hands, "that Martin has just done something very clever and fixed everything."

He threw the hat – and Martin, much to his own surprise, caught it.

* * *

><p><strong>There you have it! This has been sitting in my folder for a long time waiting for the right ending, and Zurich provided the perfect opportunity, even if it messes with the timeline a little. <strong>**Thanks to everyone who's read and enjoyed this, you're all brilliant!**

**The End!**


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